by Vi Keeland
I saw a flash of something in his eyes, and for a half of a second, it looked like he was going to reach out to me. But he didn’t. Instead, he took a full step back, almost as if he needed distance to keep himself from touching me.
I began to turn around—wanting to get the hell out of there so I could disappear with some shred of my dignity intact—but then turned back.
“You know the worst part of this? You were the first person who’d made me feel safe since I was a kid.”
Chapter 30
Chase – Two days ago
“There’s a Detective Balsamo here to see you.”
My secretary’s face was wary when she came into my office. I had an eleven o’clock meeting I was already running late for after my director of marketing had interrupted my morning to tell me what he thought of my new relationship.
This day was getting better by the fucking minute.
“Can you call R&D and tell them I’m going to need to reschedule?”
“For later today?”
“No. Leave it open as of now.”
She nodded. “Should I send the detective in?”
“Give me five minutes, and then she can come on back.”
I drew the electronic blinds and opened a text message from Reese canceling our lunch date. Could this day get any shittier?
Perhaps I shouldn’t have challenged the powers that be with that question.
Nora Balsamo was the lead detective on Peyton’s case. She was early thirties, slim, attractive, with blonde hair that was always pulled back in a ponytail. The first time we met, I’d looked right past her—literally over her head—and asked her captain for a more experienced detective. I never even gave her a chance.
Those early days were definitely not my best. Looking back, I’d wanted everyone around me to pay—especially the cops. I blamed them for not doing more to help Eddie. Early intervention could have changed everything. Today, however, even though Peyton would never be an easy subject to speak of, I was in a better place, more accepting of how the past had shaped who I was today. I was pretty sure my therapist was driving around in a Range Rover from her hours spent making that acceptance happen a few years back.
I stood when Detective Balsamo entered and walked around my desk to greet her. “Nice to see you, Detective.”
She smiled. “Is it? I’m pretty sure you’ve been avoiding me the last two weeks.”
I’d forgotten she called bullshit as sport.
I chuckled. “Maybe I was. I’m sure you’re a great person, so don’t take this the wrong way, but I never look forward to your visits.”
She smiled, and I motioned to the seating area near the windows.
“Can I get you something to drink? A bottle of water?”
“I’m good. Thank you.” She sat on the couch. “How’ve you been?”
“Good. Really good, actually.”
I took the chair across from her and caught her looking over my shoulder out the window. It was impossible to miss Peyton’s giant-sized face still painted on the building across the way. Her eyes returned to me without her asking a question, verbally at least. The woman had a stealth ability to make me offer more than I ever wanted to.
“We’re actually in the process of planning a new marketing campaign,” I said.
She nodded and kept looking at me pensively. It was probably my own paranoia, but I always felt like I was being observed around cops.
“So, to what do I owe this in-person visit, Detective?”
She took a deep breath. “I have some news about Ms. Morris’s investigation.”
At first, after Peyton was killed, I’d needed to talk about her case. So much so that I’d frequently shown up at the police station to run through things I’d remembered or to demand an update. After I started drinking heavily, those visits became daily and were more like the tirades of an angry person. I didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, drank alcohol in my Cheerios for breakfast, and often forgot to add the cereal.
Eventually, Detective Balsamo showed up at my house at five in the morning one day, hoping to catch me sober, she’d said, and told me to stop coming down to the station.
I didn’t listen to her for a very long time.
When I finally did, she promised if she ever had news about Peyton’s case, she’d make sure I was the first to know. This morning was the first time I’d ever heard her say those words.
Detective Balsamo cleared her throat. “Two weeks ago, a woman was assaulted pretty badly. Stab wound to the chest.” Our eyes locked. “Happened at a homeless camp uptown.”
“The same one?”
“No, it was a different one. Different precinct, too. That’s why the detectives who caught the case didn’t make the connection at first. The woman was out for a few days, but when she woke up, we found out she was a waitress. Turned out she used to stop at the makeshift camp after her shift and bring the day’s leftovers from the place she worked. She was a do-gooder.”
“Like Peyton.”
She nodded. “When I heard that during our morning briefing, something clicked for some reason. So I had the medical examiner compare photos of the wound from the new case to the ones in Ms. Morris’s case file.”
“And it was a match?”
“It was. The knife blade had a small nick in it, so it made a pretty distinct mark.”
“So these kids are still at it? It’s been seven years.”
“That was our original assumption. The same gang of kids we’ve been looking for for seven years was still terrorizing homeless camps, and another bystanding victim was caught in the crossfire. But then we got to talk to the victim, and we found out it wasn’t a gang of kids that attacked her.”
This was what she needed to tell me in person, what was so important she had to show up at my office unannounced. She knew it was something I wanted to hear. Needed to hear. The rage I’d felt for so long after losing Peyton was back and coursing through my veins.
My hand shook, and I clenched my fist to steady it. “Who was it?”
She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Chase. But it was…Eddie.”
***
It had been more than two hours—I’d made the detective go through all of it with me, again and again. I paced back and forth like a caged lion trying to figure out my attack.
Somehow it had been easier to imagine that a group of drug-addicted teenagers from screwed-up homes was responsible for something so violent. The world was a much more fucked-up place when a homeless man people had spent years trying to help was guilty. I didn’t want to believe it was true.
“Where is he?” I demanded.
“Who? Eddie? He’s in custody.”
“I need to see him.”
“That’s not a good idea. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy for you to hear. But I’m hoping that eventually, knowing the case is closed and her killer will be locked away for the rest of his life will help you move on.”
But I had begun to move on. This…this felt like I was being robbed of light I’d only just begun to see after years of walking in a dark place.
I scoffed and then began to laugh maniacally. “Move on. I was moving on.”
Detective Balsamo’s jaw dropped. “I…I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
“Why? Why did he want to hurt Peyton?”
She swallowed and looked at her feet. When her eyes raised to meet mine, her voice was small. “He was in love with her. Apparently, when he saw that she’d gotten engaged, it set him off. He’s not stable.”
“Is he even fit to stand trial?”
“We’ve had two psychiatrists evaluate him. Both say he’s capable of knowing right from wrong. He has obvious mental health issues, but he meets the standard of fit for trial.”
“He confessed?”
“Yes. It’s not perfect—we need to piece together twelve hours of interrogation with one- and two-word answers. But it should stick.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
>
“With the victim’s testimony, he’s going down for first-degree assault or attempted murder on the waitress. For Ms. Morris’s case, the DA says there’s enough physical evidence to put him away without the confession. He was found with the knife on his person, and we interviewed the workers at the shelter. A few had seen him using the pocketknife to cut his food and remembered it. Apparently, it was an antique—a rare officer’s edition made of walnut.”
Walnut.
I froze. “Did it have initials on it?”
“Why, yes. It did. How did you know?”
I ignored her question, needing my own answered immediately. My heart was beating a thousand miles an hour. It felt like my ribcage was going to crack and explode from the pressure.
Detective Balsamo stared at me, her brows drawn. She’d get her explanation after I got my answer. I needed an answer.
“What initials were on it?” I asked.
Seeming to sense my urgency, she reached into her pocket and pulled out her notepad. She flipped through the pages for a while, and I stood completely still. Every muscle in my body had locked.
Eventually, she stopped and pointed to her pad. “The initials were S.E.”
Chapter 31
Chase – Seven years ago
Twenty-seven stitches in his head. Peyton held Eddie’s hand the entire time, even though I wasn’t allowed within two feet. Somehow she’d managed to gain access to the no-people zone Eddie surrounded himself with like an invisible shield.
Looking over at her, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. She was beautiful and soft, sweet and inviting. What man in his right mind would reject her touch?
The ER doc who’d sewed up Eddie’s head asked to speak to me outside the exam room.
“He’s got a collection of fresh scars on his face and head,” he told me as we stepped into the hall. “This one was definitely made with a blade. The jagged skin slice is from a serrated edge. Probably a kitchen knife, if I had to guess. If the slash had been a quarter-inch to the right, he wouldn’t have an eye right now.”
I looked back into the room. Eddie’s stitches ran from his forehead down to his chin. His right eye was swollen shut from the beating he’d taken again last night.
“Eddie doesn’t talk much,” I explained. “But we think it’s a group of teenagers. Apparently it’s a game they play. They earn points for damage they cause to homeless people.”
“I heard about that on the news. Makes me scared for the future of our society.” The doctor shook his head. “Has he gone to the police?”
“Peyton’s tried to get him to. And she’s gone herself a few times—tried to file reports on his behalf. They don’t seem to care.”
“Can you get him into a shelter?”
“He goes for meals. That’s how Peyton met him. She volunteers at the place he usually eats. But he won’t stay the night. When the tables for dinner are all full, he takes his food and eats sitting in the corner, away from the people. Beds in the shelter are too close together for him to handle. Doesn’t like people too close.”
“He’s going to get killed out there if this keeps up. He needs to protect himself at least. He doesn’t have any defensive wounds on his hands and arms.”
“He’s not protecting himself?”
“Doesn’t look that way. He’s either the aggressor, or he’s cowering in the corner while someone kicks him in the head repeatedly.”
“He’s definitely not the aggressor.”
“Then you might want to try to talk to him about defending himself. Or he’ll wind up with a cracked skull.”
***
I felt bad for Eddie—I did. But if I was being honest, that wasn’t the reason I went down to the shelter the next afternoon. I went for Peyton. Okay, and also for myself. I needed this situation to get better.
There was a construction crew opening up walls to expand my new office space, a photo shoot going on in a makeshift studio in the research lab, and I’d just hired two new employees this morning. Interest in my new products kept the receptionist busy all day long. I was drowning in work, yet here I was—going to talk to a homeless guy about self-defense.
I knew Peyton had an audition and wouldn’t be at the shelter. Figuring Eddie would pay better attention to what I had to say without any distractions, I arrived shortly before dinner service started and waited outside. He limped down the block, right on schedule.
“Hey, Eddie. Think we can talk a minute?”
He looked at me but said nothing. This was going to be a real quick conversation with only one of us speaking.
“Come on. Let’s grab something to eat before it gets busy inside, and we can talk over dinner.”
I let Eddie lead the way to where he wanted to sit. Following dutifully, with my tray in hand, I walked to the far corner of the cafeteria-style dining room. I didn’t sit directly across from him, unsure of the proximity he would be comfortable with. Instead, I sat diagonally across, even though there was no one else anywhere in the vicinity.
“Peyton really cares about you,” I told him.
Turned out that was a good way to lead in. Eddie made eye contact, something he rarely seemed to do. Since I had his attention, I got down to it.
“She gets really upset when you get hurt. How come you don’t protect yourself, Eddie? You can’t let these kids keep kicking you and hurting you.”
He dug into his food. Apparently, only the mention of Peyton was worthy of his full attention. So I used it.
“Peyton wants you to protect yourself.”
Again, that helped him focus on me.
“She wants you to cover your head when they hit you. Or get out of there when they come. Can you do that for her, Eddie?”
He stared at me.
“Do you have anything to protect yourself? You’re a big guy. Maybe a piece of metal? A pipe? Something you can keep in your bag to try to scare them away?”
I was caught off guard when he spoke. “Knife.”
“Yeah.” Eyeing his fresh stitches, I nodded. “They got you good, didn’t they?”
“Knife,” he repeated.
“That’s why you need to protect yourself. The doc said you’re not even putting your hands up. Not shielding yourself from a knife.”
He repeated himself again. “Knife.”
It dawned on me then that he wasn’t telling me what happened—he was asking me for help. “You want a knife? Is that what you’re telling me?”
Shocked the shit out of me when he laid his arm across the table, palm up. “Knife.”
“I don’t have a knife for you.” I looked down at his hands. They were dirty and scarred. Even they had taken abuse. “Wait. Actually, I do.”
Reaching into my front pocket, I took out the small pocketknife I’d been carrying for as long as I could remember. It was an old, walnut-handled Swiss Army knife. I’d bought it at a garage sale when I was about twelve. Etched into the wood were the initials S.E., and there was a small stress crack next to the E that made a perfect X the same size as the initials. The thing was old, and the blade had a chip. Basically, I’d bought it because it said SEX on it…and I was twelve.
Over the years, I’d mostly used it for the bottle opener. I looked at Eddie and then at my knife, hesitating. Something about offering it to him didn’t sit right. But it was the least I could do.
He let me place it in the palm of his hand and close it into his fist.
“Be careful. Don’t use it for anything but protection. Okay, Eddie?”
He never agreed.
Chapter 32
Chase – Now (Two weeks post-Reese)
I’d become Barney.
Remember him? The guy at the bar the morning of Peyton’s funeral who was too drunk to raise his head? “That’s Barney,” the bartender had said when I’d asked about him.
That’s Chase.
Me, the sole patron at the bar at ten-fifteen in the morning. Nursing the end of my first Jack and Coke, the hair of the dog tha
t bit me. The bartender was too busy taking in a keg delivery to notice I needed a refill. The Budweiser driver looked around as the bartender signed the invoice. His eyes landing on me, he frowned and then forced a sad smile.
Yeah, that’s right. I’m Barney. Fuck you, buddy.
Around four, I was again all by my lonesome. A few old timers had straggled in and staggered out throughout the day. But the day crowd was slim to none. Which suited me fine. Jack was my only choice for company the last two weeks anyway.
Carl, the bartender, attempted to strike up a conversation after returning to the bar with a crate filled with wet glasses from the back. For the past few weeks, all my answers had been curt. I’d thought he would have stopped trying by now.
“Not many early morning folks pay with hundred-dollar bills every day.” He dried glasses with a hand towel and stacked them away under the bar.
“I’ll bring my piggy bank tomorrow. Pay with change so I fit the part better.”
He squinted, looking me over. “You could use a shave and a haircut, if you ask me, but your clothes are pretty nice, too.”
“Glad I meet the dress code.” I looked around the empty bar. “You should think about getting rid of it. Might drum up some business.” I sipped my drink.
Carl shook his head. “Got a good job?”
“Own my own company.”
“What are you, some sort of high-falutin, stock-trading-type guy?”
“Not exactly.”
“Lawyer?”
“Nope. Got a wife?” I asked.
“Yeah. Mildred. Old bird, but keeps herself in good shape still.”
“My company makes pain-free ladies’ grooming wax. And some other stuff. Mildred is more my customer than you.”
His face scrunched up. “Grooming wax? What the hell is that?”
“Removes hair in places women don’t want it. Bikini line, legs…” I took out a wad of cash from my pocket and tossed a hundred on the bar. “Some women like to be bald down below, if you know what I mean.”
“Are you pulling my leg?”